lemon cakes
by Ivory Muse
Summary: Why is Arya so eager to defy everyone's expectations of her? Sansa isn't quite sure.


**title: **lemon cakes

**author: **ivory muse

**rating: **k+

**genre: **drama/family

**characters: **sansa, arya, jeyne, septa mordane, catelyn, jon

**summary: **why is arya so eager to defy everybody's expectations of her? sansa isn't quite sure.

**a/n: **in which i attempt to explore the whole sansa/arya dynamic- they seem pretty antagonistic throughout the first book, and while i think i completely failed at capturing how eight and ten-year-olds talk, i tried my best to portray a sibling argument. if sansa comes across as condescending and holier-than-thou, that was intentional.

**disclaimer: **i do not own a song of ice and fire- if i did, i would have already released the winds of winter instead of leaving my anxious fans hanging. also, ned would still be alive.

"Arya?"

There isn't an answer, but Sansa knows that she is in her bedchamber, because Septa Mordane sent her there an hour ago to ponder her misbehavior. Even _Arya _couldn't be naughty enough to sneak out against their septa's orders…

She knocks once, twice, to no avail. "You can come out already!" Why is her own sister so inconsiderate?

Finally, after few other doggedly persistent attempts at attracting Arya's attention, the younger girl opens the door, scowling. "What do you want_?_"

"Mother wants us to eat supper with her," Sansa announces, trying to sound as grown-up as possible. "You have to wash your face and comb your hair and put on one of your good dresses before you can come down, though."

"I've been to supper before- I don't need you to tell me," Arya snaps back, heading over towards her chest. "Snitch," she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Of course, her concern is met with rudeness- why did she expect otherwise? "I am not," Sansa replies indignantly. "Playing with knives is dangerous. You could have hit one of the stablehands, or even cut yourself- I told for your own good. Besides, I was punished too. The septa was going to teach me a new stitch this afternoon, but she was too busy dealing with you and didn't have the time. Why do always have to ruin everything with those games?"

"Such deep suffering," Arya mocks, adopting a scornful tone. "My palm was lashed, and I've spent ages locked up in here 'thinking about what behavior befits one of my station'. Who cares about your stupid _embroidery, _anyway?" She withdraws a velvet gown the color of virgin snow.

Sansa balls her fists to keep from slapping her. _Ladies control their anger at even the most difficult of times, _Septa Mordane's voice chides. "I'm not going to waste any more of my time with this infantile argument," she loftily retorts. "I'll tell Mother to expect you soon."

Just as she's about to storm out, Arya stops her. "Don't _you_ ever feel like breaking the rules?" She casually throws out the question, as though she really doesn't care whether Sansa deigns to answer or not.

"_Me_?" For a moment, she's shocked. Nobody has ever asked her if she wants to be poorly behaved- the thought of making mischief as her sister does has never occurred to her. Arya is wicked and unmanageable and Sansa is the good girl who never gives anyone trouble- that's how things work. "Why would I want to bump around on horses and sneak into the armory and get all dirty?"

Arya shrugs. "It's more fun than listening to Septa lecture on history, or gossiping about the servants with that horrid Jeyne Poole."

"What do you have against Jeyne?"

"She hates me."

"That's because the last time you saw her you shoved a slug down her tunic." Sansa casts a critical eye upon the dress her sister is in the process of donning. "You shouldn't wear something so pale- you'll spill something on it"

With a long, dramatic sigh, Arya puts it back and takes out a plainer green gown. "Do we have to eat with Mother?"

"Why do you sound so disappointed?" Sansa demands. "You should be glad- we're hardly ever allowed."

"I don't like her- she fusses about my lessons and my clothes and wants me to be a little lady all the time," Arya says matter-of-factly.

"How could you say that so loudly- what if someone heard you? Everybody in a family likes each other, anyway," Sansa insists.

"I don't think Mother even knows Jon's _name_, much less likes him," Arya promptly responds, dragging a brush through her scraggly brown hair. "And don't you _dare _say that Jon isn't part of our family."

"He's a bastard- you might be fond of each other, but it's the truth," Sansa scolds, feeling as though she's far older than ten. "It wouldn't hurt for you to listen to Mother, either. You're not some peasant."

"I'd rather be a peasant, then!" She slams her hairbrush back down on her vanity harder than she should have.

They're awkwardly silent for a while, unable to breach the enormous barrier between them. Somehow this isn't one of their silly disagreements over stolen pocket money or never-returned handkerchiefs- it's more intimate, more personal. Why does Arya act this way, so contrary to every notion of femininity that's been drilled into her over the years?

"We should go downstairs," Arya finally says. "Mother must think we've dropped dead in the corridor."

"Right," Sansa replies, snapping out of her contemplative mood. Ladies never leave their hostesses waiting, and her sister's gotten into enough trouble for today. Will Arya _ever _grow up, or at least conduct herself as a proper Stark should? She honestly can't tell.


End file.
